Page 54 of Just for Tonight

“You can’t cancel my cards!” Candace shrieks. She comes after me, hands extended like claws, but I pivot and grab her wrists before she does any damage.

“He says there’s no money,” Madison provides before I can say the same.

“That’s not possible.” Candace’s eyes look wild. “That can’t be true. Patrick said he’d always take care of me…”

“But you spent his money faster than he earned it.”

“No.” She stares at me as if she’s surprised – or maybe I’m lying - and once again, I’m annoyed.

“Oh yes. What’s left is debt. A whole crapton of it. Everything is mortgaged and financed and leased. It’s impressive, really. A house of cards, and it’s already started to collapse. I hope you have a bit of cash on hand.”

I hear the trucks arriving as Candace wilts before me. Madison hears them, too, and heads to a window with curiosity. Candace starts to cry as I grab the last box and head for the car.

Trust me. The situation is only going to get worse.

There is a flat-bed truck pulling into the driveway, and two more idling on the road. It’s a tight squeeze, given the number of vehicles parked there and the sweeping curve of the drive, never mind the line of ornamental cedars on one side. I point the first driver in the direction of the gold Infiniti SUV that is Candace’s pride and joy. It’s closest to the gates.

“What?” she cries from the doorway, clutching the front of her bathrobe.

“It would be best if you surrendered the keys,” I say to her. “Otherwise, they’ll have to rekey the vehicles and there will be a charge for that.”

She stares at me in shock, mouth hanging open. “But that’s my car!”

“Actually, no, it belongs to the bank, and since we’re not able to make the payments on the note any longer, they want it back.” I’m actually being proactive here, because I really need the bank on my side to get through this in any way, shape or form. The cars are the easiest sacrifice and the easiest for them to sell.

“But, but Patrick bought it for me, in cash.”

“And promptly refinanced it through the bank. If it’s got a bit of gas in it, you might own that but good luck getting it out of the tank.”

“You bastard,” she hisses at me, then vanishes into the house. She returns a moment later with the key fob and unlocks the car, hastily removing an astonishing amount of junk from the interior as the flatbed truck backs up, beeping all the way. Madison helps her and they pile it on the porch haphazardly. The car, it appears, is yet another closet.

The driver of the flatbed sifts through the contents of SUV glove box, sorting out what he needs and what Candace can keep. We confer, then he positions the flatbed and carefully drives the SUV onto it. The Infiniti is secured with chains etc. while I move my car out to the road to give the other drivers more space.

Moving my car also means it’ll be too far away for anyone to toss a rock through the windshield.

I feel a bit sorry for Candace, standing at the front door, clutching her empty shopping bags and her sunglasses, weeping as her SUV vanishes from view. This, unfortunately, is not going to be the low point of her day.

“Keys,” I say to Madison as the second flatbed turns into the driveway. Her bright red Audi is next in the queue of cars. It can’t be six months old.

“No,” she says, but there’s no conviction in her voice. She’s pale and I think she’s finally getting it.

I hold out my hand a little more. If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under, but she scurries into the house and returns with her keys, viciously unlocking the car and emptying it of her belongings as the flatbed eases closer. There’s a growing pile of junk on the porch now and I marvel that some people keep so much crap in their cars. Maybe their vehicles were extra large purses.

I never want to see their closets.

We repeat the exercise and Madison joins her mom at the door, clutching a Godiva chocolate bag. They each have one, maybe for strength. The second flatbed leaves, the red Audi perched on it like a cherry on a birthday cake, and there are only two more cars in the driveway. Dad’s comparatively ancient Buick sedan and the yellow Mustang.

“I hate you, Jake Cavendish,” Madison mutters.

I try to explain. “But the bank will now see us as part of the solution, instead of the source of the problem.” It’s true. They’d rather have the money, of course, but reclaiming the assets and selling them is better than Candace et al reneging on the debt. I’m hoping that this choice will keep them at bay over the house a little longer. The fact that bankers really don’t like repossessing primary residences is a factor on my side.

Madison just considers me with narrowed eyes. Now she looks like a furious cat.

The last flatbed turns into the driveway. Ethan has joined the company at the door, wearing plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt, his hair standing up on end. It is after ten and he’s only out of bed because of the ruckus. I’m amazed that there are people who sleep in like this, especially people who lived their whole lives in a house with my father. He was a drill sergeant with the rest of us. Up at six, washed and dressed by seven, breakfast by seven-fifteen and on your way to your day before seven-thirty. Every day of the week, with no exceptions. Yet here they are, lounging in their jammies when it’s coming on eleven on a Friday morning.

Maybe the old man is rolling over in his drawer in the mortuary.

I meet Ethan’s gaze, putting out my hand.